


Shattered Echoes

by sunaddicted



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, POV Second Person, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4836221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/pseuds/sunaddicted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a routine – it comforts you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> The title sucks, but it's better than "Angbang, Untitled"

_Shattered Echoes_

_Drop to your knees_ , he commands – you immediately obey, flesh and bones violently hurled against the cold and pristinely clean floor of white marble on which tiny specks of blood appear as your skin splits for the impact: the pain is beautiful and breathtaking, it shoots up your frail spine, mercilessly shaking it and making you look like an electrocuted corpse with useless limbs flaying around.

_You look like a fool_ , the voice in your head spits in a threatening hiss – you protectively tuck your chin against your chest and let your crimson hair veil your beautifully impassive features, slowly twisting into a grimace: the taunting is ugly and horrid, it poisons your veins, cruelly burning them and setting you on fire like a great and festive conflagration.

_Shut up_ , you mutter to yourself – you sink your pointed and sharp teeth in the tender meat of your lower lip: the rebellion is so good and exhilarating, it clouds your mind, deliriously scattering your thoughts and effortlessly making you forget the original aim of those words.

He strokes your cheek with a calloused thumb before slipping it in your mouth, fighting against your clenched jaws and forcing them to open; the voice screams in the back of your mind and tries to make you revolt against that familiar and beloved touch; you shudder lightly, knowing what’s going to happen and unsure whether you’re a willing participant: the lines are always so hazy, smudged one over the other, overlapping in an hallucinating and maddening dance.

His digit sensually caress the flat of your tongue, slowly sliding to its back and dipping down your already constricting throat to tickle your gag reflex; the presence dwelling in your brain pleads you to free yourself from this unwarranted punishment he so carelessly and regularly bestows upon you; you choke a bit on the finger inching lower and lower, your lips stretching around the charred hand in a parody of you’re expecting to shortly happen.

It’s a routine – it comforts you.

_Mairon_ , he whispers sensually, withdrawing his fist and leaving you empty and gaping, saliva pooling at the strained corners and dribbling down your pointy chin.

_Mairon_ , the voice cries terribly, echoing in your head like the bloodcurdling screams ripped from the prisoners’ throats, held in captivity in the dungeon beneath your feet, restlessly bouncing from its filthy and slimy walls.

“Melkor” you whimper – you don’t know whether from desire or humiliation. You’re blurring with the landscape, losing yourself in the constant pull between your cruel lover and the protective spirit living in your synapsis: a mere plaything to war over “Melkor” you repeat and, somehow, it doesn’t make more sense but it’s the only clear word you can distinctively discern from the chaos.

He parts the folds of his velvety robes that smell of pomegranate and incense, revealing his thick and veined length and feeds it to you; the voice orders you to bite him as your mouth is being ruthlessly fucked; you still kneel and look up at him, tears and adoration leaking from your burning eyes even as you gag and he thrusts harder and deeper and faster, enjoying the spasms of your convulsing esophagus that squeezes more bitter and gooey precum from his reddened tip.

_My Little Flame_ , he praises in a moan that makes you tingle all over and suck more eagerly on his hardness: no more a wet hole but an active participant.

_Admirable_ , the voice reminds you as it tries to shake you away from the daze you’re in.

They see you very differently, Melkor and the person in your head – you don’t know who’s in the right: you don’t know yourself. You’re so shattered and swallow your lover’s essence, dutifully ignoring the sobbing in your mind.

_I adore you_ , Melkor’s arms slither around your waist and he carries you to bed, where he embraces you – you feel whole for an instant. Then you break down and cry and still he holds you to his chest, his heartbeat drumming against your quivering back.

_This is not love_ , the voice claims and you know it’s right for once: it’s not love, but it’s the closer you’ll ever get.

And it’s enough.


End file.
